Chapter 37
Thirty-seven
Addie
Luc parks a half block down from Ric and Liz’s place because the street is full, which feels like a good sign.
It’s the last Wednesday evening of the month, and everyone is showing up like clockwork.
Family dinner hasn’t stopped just because everything else has changed.
If anything, it’s become more important, something we all hold on to.
Luc gets out of the car first, the cold snapping at his jacket as he rounds to my side. I take a second before opening the door, one hand braced on my thigh, the other settling over my belly.
The baby rolls, strong, insistent, like he’s got somewhere to be and none of us is moving fast enough. I smile despite myself.
“Still busy in there,” Luc says.
“Too busy,” I tell him. “But he’s not going anywhere for a while.”
There’s relief in saying it out loud. I still have a few weeks to go, and every part of me knows he isn’t ready. I’m not rushing him. And I’m not rushing myself.
Luc offers his arm as we start toward the house, more for balance than ceremony. I take it, aware of the way that still feels like a choice instead of a default.
The porch light is already on as we approach. Warm. Inviting. Familiar. Though today was not warm or inviting.
Evie’s court date was set this morning. So there’s no more waiting for the call, no more vague timelines.
A date has been placed on the calendar, fixed and immovable.
Evie will stand in front of a judge, and whatever comes after that will be final in the way only time and age can make it.
I understand the math of it, even if I don’t say it out loud.
There won’t be a long after. There won’t be a redemption arc that stretches out over years.
I’m not sure what I’m supposed to feel about that. Relief sits next to grief like they’ve made peace with each other. Neither one wins.
Luc came home from the hospital to pick me up for this dinner, but he hasn’t asked how my day was. He already knows it was heavy, and he knows I’ll share if I want to. He doesn’t fill the silence with reassurance or try to soften what can’t be tempered.
His hand rests at my back as we climb the steps.
It’s enough. Inside, the house hums with noise—voices overlapping, the clatter of dishes, someone laughing too loud in the kitchen.
It hits me all at once, that familiar swell of sound that means I don’t have to hold everything by myself in this room.
I pause just inside the doorway, letting it wash over me.
“Are you okay?” Luc asks quietly.
I nod. “Yeah. Just…taking a breath.”
He stays where he is, not blocking the door, not ushering me forward. I step in when I’m ready.
The baby kicks again, sharper this time, and I huff out a breath, rubbing the curve of my stomach. My body feels stretched and solid and tired. But I’ve had tougher days than this. I’ve survived harder moments. That knowledge steels me more than any pep talk could.
And on top of it all, Luc is joining me for family dinner. Officially. This is the first time he’ll be part of the evening, not an accessory to it.
I’m aware of that in a way I didn’t expect. Not nervous. Just conscious of how openly I’m standing beside him, how little I feel like explaining anything.
I breathe again, deeper this time, and step fully into the room. Luc’s hand finds mine.
Ric smiles when he sees me, and then his gaze shifts to Luc. “Hey,” he says. “Come in. You’re right on time.”
There’s no pause. No recalibration. Luc isn’t treated like an addition or a question mark. He’s just…here. Included. I feel that inside myself before I can name it.
Liz’s voice carries from the kitchen, warm with affection. Someone laughs—Josie, I think. The house smells like dinner that’s been given some patience. Garlic, wine, something warm and familiar that tells me this night was planned with care.
Liz appears, wipes her hands on a towel, and kisses my cheek before turning to Luc. She says his name easily, like she’s been saying it for years. “We’re so glad you’re here.”
Josie slides a glass toward him at the island. Sera offers a smile. No one asks questions that feel like tests. No one circles me to see how I’m doing with this, as if it needs managing.
I hadn’t realized how much I expected to be on alert until I’m not.
The baby shifts again, a long roll that makes me brace my hand under my belly. Liz notices, of course, and asks how I’m feeling. I answer honestly. Tired. Fine. Still pregnant.
“He’s still cooking,” I say, and Luc huffs out a quiet laugh beside me.
Conversation moves easily—vineyard updates, small-town logistics, something about a delivery gone sideways.
Sera and Josie talk about the work they’re doing, the slow repairs that don’t make headlines but are crucial anyway.
I listen without stepping in. I don’t need to direct or soften or translate. They’ve got it.
Evie’s name doesn’t come up. Tonight, the room isn’t organized around absence or anticipation. It’s focused on what’s here.
Luc stays close without hovering. When Ric asks him a question, he answers plainly and then lets the conversation move on.
When someone asks about the baby, he looks to me first, not for permission but for alignment.
I offer him a glance and a nod, and he adds a thought.
It doesn’t feel like compromise. It feels like coordination.
When the food is ready, dinner gets underway the way it always does—plates passed, glasses refilled, someone standing to grab a forgotten serving spoon and never quite sitting back down.
I ease into my chair carefully, my body reminding me that I take up more space than I used to, that everything is slower now.
Across the table, Sera explains a shipment delay, her tone calm, practical.
Josie jumps in with a dry aside that makes Ric laugh, and Liz rolls her eyes in that fond way that means she’s heard all of this before.
They talk about the vineyard the way people talk about something they’ve chosen to keep, despite the effort it requires—without drama, without nostalgia, just work and responsibility and forward motion.
I listen more than I speak. Not because I’m holding back, but because I enjoy just letting it happen around me, taking in the easy rhythm, the way everyone moves around one another. Luc fits into it in a way that doesn’t diminish me. If anything, his presence heightens my sense of self.
This is what I wanted, I realize. Not to be absorbed. Not to be protected. To be partnered without being replaced.
Luc’s hand brushes mine, and I let my fingers slide into his without thinking about what it signals to anyone else. Until I do. But as I glance around, no one reacts. I don’t know why this surprises me. No one needs to.
I stay exactly where I am, though—rooted, present, fully myself. Saying yes doesn’t cost me anything.
Luc sits beside me, his knee angled toward mine. When the conversation veers toward vineyard logistics—timelines, staffing, next quarter’s projections—he stays quiet. He listens. He doesn’t offer fixes or suggestions.
At one point, Josie glances my way, as if checking whether I want to weigh in. I shake my head and smile. Not now. She keeps going without missing a beat.
There’s relief in that exchange. Mutual understanding without explanation. Not everyone is out to take something from me. I’m going to be reminding myself of that for a long time to come.
The baby shifts again, a firm press that steals my breath for a second. I rest my hand on my stomach. Luc notices immediately, and I exhale slowly and nod. All good.
Dinner winds down, and the edges of the night soften.
Plates are cleared but not stacked with any urgency.
Someone opens another bottle of wine, even though no one really needs it.
Liz disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a dessert she insists is casual, which only means she made it yesterday instead of this morning.
I shift in my chair, easing the weight off my lower back, and Luc adjusts with me without making a thing of it. His hand rests lightly at my waist when I stand, and I’m aware of the contact in the way I’m aware of gravity—present, reliable, not something I have to think about.
Someone reaches for water. Someone else leans back in their chair. And Ric pulls his phone from his pocket and opens his calendar, thumb already scrolling.
“So,” he says lightly, “next few weeks. Who’s actually in town? The baby is due in fourteen days.”
Sera answers first, ticking off her days between bottling and distributor meetings. Josie chimes in about a shipment that can’t move but could be supervised.
“And if he decides to make an early appearance?” Josie asks, lifting a brow toward my stomach.
A few heads turn. Not sharply. Just checking.
“He won’t,” Ric says with quiet certainty, like he’s negotiated this personally with the universe.
A ripple of laughter moves around the table.
Liz doesn’t look at anyone else when she speaks. She looks at me. “Do you want help lined up? Nights, meals, whatever makes sense?”
I think about that—about what would steady me and what would crowd me. “Meals the first week would be good,” I say after a moment. “But I’d rather see how nights go before we schedule anything.”
Liz nods. “Done.”
No debate. No gentle correction. No one insisting I’ll change my mind.
Ric tilts his head. “Timing-wise, what are we thinking?”
Luc’s knee brushes mine under the table.
“Due date’s still holding,” I say. “Unless he decides otherwise.”
Luc waits a beat, long enough to be sure I’m finished. “I’ve shifted my on-call schedule starting next Friday,” he adds. “Just in case.”
The rhythm settles. Question. Answer. Pause. No one grabbing the wheel out of my hands. They’re being so careful, and I love them for it. For a moment, I bask in it. The steady back and forth. The way no one fills the silence before I do.
Then Josie groans dramatically. “I’m color-coding the family calendar again. Last time, it looked like a Jackson Pollock.”
Sera laughs, reaching for her phone. “You’re just mad that mine’s neater.”
They’re both smiling, already coordinating without fuss. I watch them and realize that this steady back-and-forth, this ability to plan without losing myself, is what yes actually looks like when it isn’t coerced. And that doesn’t scare me at all.
I end up near the window while Liz pours coffee. Outside, the street is dark and quiet, the porch light throwing a soft arc across the snow-dusted sidewalk. I rest my palm against the glass for a moment.
Luc comes to stand beside me. He follows my gaze out the window like he’s learned to do, getting the sense of where I am by what I’m doing.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just thinking.”
He nods, accepting that. Then his hand finds mine. The contact is gentle, a suggestion rather than a claim. I lace my fingers through his.
I turn toward him, meeting his eyes. There’s warmth there, and patience, and a steadiness that doesn’t demand anything in return. “I’m glad you’re here,” I tell him.
He smiles. “Me too.”
The baby moves again, a slow, insistent roll, and I laugh softly. Luc glances down and then back at me. I nod, still smiling.
This is what partnership looks like when it’s chosen from strength, not fear. Not as refuge. Not as obligation.
Just two people standing side by side, both intact, both willing.
When Ric calls our names, I squeeze Luc’s hand and turn back toward the room, ready to rejoin the group.